The Final Battle
by Danny Barefoot
Summary: Fighter, Warrior and Wizard return to the goblin cave for the last time. Goblin Slayer belongs to copyright holders, thankfully not me.
1. The Goblin Slayers

The goblin hunt was over. Across the cave's torch-wavered gloom, the five adventurers caught their blood-choked breaths. The Priestess knelt over the slaughtered little greenskins, praying for their souls, but the Slayer cuffed her head. Hauled her up with the armoured fist, told her, look to the women. Infant goblins' blood clung to the Priestess' hair and collar as she complied. A human rapist could be forgiven–exactly because the vilest man carried a soul and the hope of humanity. But to forgive the concept of rape, in grinning, scuttling form, was toxic-twee sentimentality at its most insipid–so the Wizard Boy, Joachim Tresckow, thought.

The women, the goblins' captives, were still bleeding. One raised her body up from cold stone, arms thin and shaking; the other only twitched. The weeping, soul-howling joy of their rescue…was poisoned and pitiful as the goblin had made everything, when they burnt their homes and killed their families. They were the lucky ones, there would be life for them tomorrow-apart from the third woman, who was dead–but their eyes were barren. The Priestess couldn't meet such eyes; no real, feeling man ever would. Only the Slayer.

The Slayer had killed two hobgoblins and beaten the third senseless, along with two of its little brothers. All had been dragged to the central cavern with four snapped limbs. Jo Tresckow watched in silence. The Slayer knelt down, lowering that stained and twisted steel mask close to the captives.

"You're safe now. I'm with you. Those cockroaches are alive, but you can kill them with this club. I will stay with you, until you're ready to crush them."

The older of the women grasped the brandished weapon; choked down her tears. The younger one hid her eyes.

"… mother. I want my mother! I want to go home…!"

"You will not leave this place until those cockroaches are dead. Trust me on this."

Then the Slayer threw off her helmet. Her ponytail fell down like a black banner.

Her voice was hoarse and low, but it cut the girls to their hearts. It hauled their broken souls upright; clothed them with the strong and shaking embrace of grief. Then with the robes of hope, and respect. As the scarred steel hand of a woman, and eyes like dead and mighty stars, guided their first and faltering steps.

"You're stronger than goblins. We're stronger. Fight them, and live."

Indeed, raping women did not make goblins strong; even hobs were no stronger than orcs. After a while, the older woman tottered up; the Priestess helped her to keep her feet. As a farmer's wife, the woman had slaughtered pigs before, and buried tiny children. This was something no woman should ever have had to do, but she would do it. She smashed the club down until the hobgoblin had no head, screaming her dead son and husbands' names.

The younger girl cried in terror at more blood and death, until the Slayer gathered the poor thing to her breastplate and carried her out of the caves. The thumps sounded briefly behind them, but the Slayer never stopped speaking to her, or looking into her eyes. Another adventurer followed them with a torch, to the sunset gloom of the surface.

The Slayer was still speaking softly to the girl when Jo and the others emerged from the caves. The rescued woman reached out stained hands to the younger girl, who fell sobbing on her bosom; however dirty they both were, they were free. The older woman would be a farmer's wife again, and she would do more to lead the younger girl to recovery than the Slayer ever would–except through the village self-defence class run by an elf girl the Slayer had trained.

In the past ten years her disciples and former companions had trained self-defence militias in every village; the goblin threat to small hamlets had made every sane cottager leave for the towns. The cockroaches still slipped through, but a thousand heroes, men and women, kept up the fight. When men looked the goblins victims in the face, they would not let their sisters, wives and neighbours be taken–though it disgusted Jo Tresckow that they needed any cajoling to give up their safety and lives. Certainly, no one who saw the Slayer could say that the rescue of raped women brought back nothing but sobbing, half-comatose mouths to burden the parrish.

-0-

Every time he watched the Slayer drag broken women to their feet and splint their souls, after yet another goblin extermination quest–Jo Tresckow felt a little bit more useless. The sleeping gas spell he had developed (and named for his dead, disgraced, forever-beloved sister), had made clearing all but the largest caves the trivial matter it deserved to be. But there were always more caves, and bigger ones. And his sister, the only human who would ever speak with him and understand, was bones in a goblin cave. He hadn't seen her die in the darkness, but every day she wasn't there his mind burned. Fixed, thoughtful and earnest, on a holocaust of goblinkind.

He found the Slayer alone, on a rock outside the camp, the helmet once more hiding her face. He sat by the rock, until he felt he could speak.

"Were you meditating, meine damen? Not praying, surely...?"

"I haven't prayed since I put this armour on. Until the gods fall in the dirt and suffer as we do, no one will save me but myself, and no one will condemn me again.

"I feel I will never comprehend the strength of women. What they endure through and live, year after year…but it fills me with more sadness than hope."

"Idiot." The Slayer grated, "Women aren't that strong. We fall down and cry; we despair and don't rise again. I want to scream and tear out my teeth, when we rescue a girl, but she can't come back…though I don't curse them. It could have been me, that stayed broken. Sometimes I think it was. "

For a minute, Jo was silent with his thought. The Slayer continued her silent, nightly battle; wrenching back all her strength and triumphs from the jaws that howled Liar, Failure, Victim.

"Nightmares?"

"Of killing monsters and being killed by them. Not so different from our days. The other rescued women, living out silent lives of peace in their villages, are all heroes...but this life is the best for me. I fought for it. To use the power I have to save everybody I can. Always."

"How did you come back, at the beginning? What was the road, or…?"

"…the toll? My father's gift, the martial arts I disgraced…I can't truly use them in this heavy armour, but I can't fight without it. I couldn't go back to the fight, without armour and a sword. I lost my name. The ones who knew me are dead. That fearless, smiling girl is dead…but father told me that death and rebirth are only steps on the warrior's path. For years, I thought he lied to me about everything. I was weak, a coward, a victim…I'd failed them…I'm so sorry, Jo…"

The Slayer's grip on her swordhilt was white. Joachim knew the names of the dead dummkopf peasant-boy she'd loved twelve years ago, and of his own dead sister Ilsa Tresckow, were still too pain-charged for her to speak. One day, he would tell her he could forgive her.

"In the temple I couldn't even practise my father's arts, at first." The Slayer went on, "It seemed like a sick, filthy joke. But one of the sisters said once that meditation and Tai Chi might help me heal–that woman deserves more statues than any dragon-slayer. I spent hours thinking of nothing but a flower, or a stone, and turning away from nightmares. It was talking with that blessed sister that truly saved me, but I needed something to get me through the nights, when I was alone. The other nuns told me to praise all the gods, for all my saved, defiled life. She told me that nothing could take the purity of my soul, and nothing I ever did would be unblessed.

"I got better, or I thought I did. I sewed clothes for the poor. I prayed for strength and forgiveness; any scrap they might throw from their mountain. I would have cursed the gods to hell back then, but I was too afraid. I sat up with the girls they brought in, I told them their lives were worth fighting for. I told them it would get easier with time...but the women who'd been made victims never stopping coming in. The days rolled around like that spinning wheel. I never though I'd ever go out to fight again, without terror that threw me down…but it was over a year, before the night when thieves broke into the temple looking for gold or food. They were kids really, skinny and hungry-desperate. But they had knives, and I've met with kids in the capital's slums who killed their parents and raped their sisters. Even the goblins are better than that.

"One of them covered my mouth, from behind–I would have screamed. Thirteen months of fighting to get my own life back vanished, that moment. I was so terrified, I can hardly think what I thought…I just knew I had to stay still, fall down, let them do whatever they wanted and break me again–or smash a chamberpot over that poor boy's head and punch the broken handle through his throat. Then hit his friend, until I heard his neck crack, then the guard who came, I'm so glad I didn't kill him…they locked me up after that, but I crawled through a drain and ran. I remembered, I could punch off goblin heads with my hands–and there were so many girls they would take, unless I brought them back. I had to be strong. What they did to me was a sick, sick horror…but fear is a stupid, stupid lie. I might have stayed in that temple, and let them rape me every night. Let them rape all the girls they wanted, forever! NO, NO, NO! NO MORE FEAR!"

Jo Tresckow imagined that the Slayer had been a very open, passionate teenager, twelve years ago. Sometimes the old-young woman's heart burst out. Two metallic sobs echoed round the helmet, before she regained her grip of steel on her grief.

"That was all I could do. You don't know how sorry I am...I could never save your sister. After all I've done, I'm a broken lie…but we saved those girls. today. That's something."

The young wizard adjusted his glasses. He had his sister's red hair, and his sister's stony smarter-than-you expression. But the twin points of light in his eyes were Jo Tresckow, with twelve lonely years to burn and fester.

"You can't save all the women the goblins take, Miss Slayer. All we can do is wipe the monsters out. Something came to me in a dream, four years ago–in two more years, with the requisite funds…a virus. A disease, born from vermilion fever, white smallpox and a dash of magic, that could infect every one of the Praying Races within months. With perhaps a week of coughing and fever, before it settles in the blood. Then it will spread to every goblin–they cannot survive without preying on humans–and every goblin will drown in its blood within days. If five in a hundred survive, they will starve in their caves, helpless to raid or breed–and I will laugh, and laugh, and laugh for my sister's sake! Then I will make a virus for the orcs, then exterminate link by link up the chain, until all dragons and demons are dead. It may take generations, before humans can truly begin to live–but when we have put away the monsters, what will we do with the world? What would you do, Miss Slayer? What do you think of that?"

The Slayer was still for long enough, even Jo was afraid. Meditating? Or deciding the fate of the dunghill world under her feet?

"…it seems a good dream."

"Bitte? Everyone else called me mad! A mutation, a single mistake could wipe humanity out. Though I scarcely hold them better than goblins, for letting my sister die. Do you truly think...?"

"…I think…it's the sort of idea your sister, Ilsa, would have had. And I think it's a dream as big as…Harry's." The helmet dropped forward. Jo saw the tears fall from the visor, but her voice was–smiling? "That was your last goblin hunt. Lock yourself in a lab and work; I'll give you all the money you need. But not another word about wiping humanity out, do you hear?"

"Certainly, I won't mention–" The Slayer turned to look on Tresckow, who suddenly swallowed his tongue, "–jawohl, no more."

"No more monsters, no more quests…oh, Harry would be sad." The tears still rolled down the Slayer's cold breastplate, "He should have known, we should have known…there are other quests, and real heroes. And real magic, in our hearts, our heads and our love. Oh, Harry. Ilsa. I couldn't save you, but when the sun goes down, I will remember...and now, so will the world."

-0-

Eighteen months later, the white pox was born. Six months after that, the last goblin was dead. Most of the captive women waded through goblin blood and pus to the daylight and rescued themselves. The starving single goblins who crept into villages generally had their heads smashed in with rolling pins. Mankind's well-know predication for torture and brutality could have reasonably been stoked to unheard of heights on the last of of the vermin, except that goblins had always been too pathetic to slay with any satisfaction.

The Praying Races were too busy being slaughtered by orcs and trolls to exactly string out the bunting, but every mother of a daughter blessed the Tresckow name. A certain armoured hunter of goblins might have expressed some quiet satisfaction, had he not been run down by a dungcart about a year after stabbing Ilsa Tresckow. No one knew what had become of his companions, or had reason to care.

Joachim Tresckow, the Plague Lord of Mitteland, was called a mad wizard and a threat to humanity. Some adventurers even set out to kill him, until the government put him on a salary. He answered discreet enquiries about a plague for the elves, just in case they got too uppity, with a mysterious smile. He destroyed only the worst of those from the academy who had laughed at his sister's death, but all of the many wizards who sought work with his research group had to kneel at her grave.

The Slayer had spoken of retiring to teach martial arts to orphans–but then the news came of a cruel and power-crazed Lich king rising to power in the southern mountains. The Plague Lord's heirs would indeed see the death of dragons, one day–but germ warfare would never disturb the undead.

He Lei, the Slayer's father, had told her of the Mystic Shield technique. A martial artist's spirit could turn deadly magic aside. After months of learning and relearning, the Fighter went South, with a white robe, bare hands, and a bare, steady face. For the friends she had lost, for the friends who went with her–for every single innocent she could still save. She had always been a saviour, not a slayer, because she had suffered but she had fought.


	2. Turn Back Time

The blast of ice tore at the Slayer's face, but her shield of life-force held back destruction. Her back leg released and sprang, her foreleg came around as she flew, counterweight to her hand's knife-sharp guard–then her kick was a Ki-powered spear, cracking the Lich King's skull, just as her father had taught.

With a terrible sigh, all of the monster's world-ruining schemes and dreams blew away on a foul-smelling wind. Only an undistinguished scowling skull and black robe remained, monotonous as tyranny. But an emblem of life from death, to the thousands tortured and imprisoned for a skeleton's power fantasy. The Lich's harem of demons had gone before him, hissing bitterly, under the weapons of the Slayer's companions.

"You did it! You saved everyone, you never gave up…we just need to slay a demon lord and a dragon, then who could ever deny that you're the greatest hero that lived!"

"…Harry? My, my brave Warrior…?"

The Slayer was burnt from fireballs, cut from blade winds, drained of power. Her left arm was broken and her eyes trembled from far away. She stared at the fair-haired, deadly young swordsman who was not her Warrior, and her head fell. She stood there, silent, over the victory that minstrels would sing of for centuries. Hers, alone.

She was not alone. Her companions had gone through hellfire with her, she would die for each one of them. The young wizard who was smashing the Lich's phylactery, now, had even once said he loved her, but she'd had no answer to give. She could have fought through the grasping, stifling nightmare of weakness, fight through anything, but what for? She'd poured her strength, her hours and her poisoned heart into slaying, and what was left?

If only…_what_? What could three green adventurers, inexplicably denied all training and guidance, have known to do differently? The Slayer couldn't even remember the process of the fight fifteen years ago that had derailed her life. One bald green head, smashed under her fist, was as meaningless as the thousandth. Horror and concussion had cut a black hole in her memories, after the hob had caught her foot, struck her head–no, the sucking wound that had dragged her back to helpless pain, year on violated year.

She still remembered how her Warrior's eyes had shone. Forging ahead into that cave, his dreams and destiny. She could imagine what he might have grown to–where her fearless leader might have led her–but not without seeing the way he'd died and wanting to vomit. She'd taken years to even hear of Ilsa's death, but she'd thought of Archmage Ilsa Firebringer every day.

Even now, when heroes of the future would dream and dare because of only her…she had nothing but the past. The foremost Wizard of the age. The boy who would have been a dragonslayer, her boy…her childhood friend, forever.

Her young wizard–a doctor of wizardry, in fact, with neat brown hair and a charming Albion accent–told the Slayer about the Lich library, and his own prodigious life studies. There would be no going back–but the Slayer didn't take long to decide. There was nothing in a world of monsters for her, except to go onwards.

In a wheel of rainbows, with a noise like a tearing soul, the Slayer went _back_. Bards would always sing of the heroine who had come back from shameful defeat to truly rid the world of goblins; though they did not, perhaps could not, sing of her crawling, hopeless years of struggle. Neither they, Joachim Tresckow, or the companions that loved the Slayer, ever saw her in that world again.

The Slayer woke in a world of goblins, fifteen years ago. Somewhere, in a tiny village, a dark-haired teenage girl was thinking of going on an adventure. The Slayer was going to find her, and she was going to save her–once she clothed herself in the armour that would stop her shaking.


	3. Another Fighter

_She is clothed in strength and dignity, and laughs without fear for the future._

_–Psalms 32:25_

_…for she is big in armes, by my faith!/As he will find, who her misdoeth or saith…_

_–Harry Bailey describing his wife, The Canterbury Tales_

_This we must do, (no matter how absurdly), to satisfy the taste of the town._

_–The Beggar's Opera_

* * *

"Father. I'm going to become an adventurer. I'll use the martial arts you entrusted to me to help everyone I can!"

Fighter, Susan Lei, announced her resolve to her father's headstone. Then she sat down a while on the empty hillside. As if the sky had been removed, or gravity annulled, she felt strangely sick and light–she was drifting unstoppably into a universe of adventure. There was excitement that blazed in her chest, the pole star of her dreams. But another heart moaned its grief and need, clinging to the headstone and little village of friendship that still filled her sight.

Suffering came from attachment. She breathed a full, deep measure, recalling her father's teachings. She would pace and strain, breathe and scream, through the patterns of her family's martial arts. Split the throats of ten thousand phantasmal monsters, despair of ever scaling the next wall she faced...but an hour of meditation and another year of growth would always bring victory one step closer. But she had never yet touched the fight she would never let go– whatever the ancient sages said about suffering. For justice, and for the innocent.

She had dressed in her white martial arts robe to affirm her resolve–and the yellow scarf worn by her grandfather in the Celestial Empire's great rebellion. The vanquished rebels had fled as far as the narrow western land where she had been born–but now she would go to see the world, and prove that defeat was not forever. Her arms were firm, her thighs were strong; from her hard knuckles to her solid boots, she was ready. But she didn't go…

"Hey. Susan?"

Warrior, Harry Fawkes, her best friend and eternal rival, had walked up the hill behind her. Eyes bright with mute concern and latent heart-power, brown hair tousled in the breeze. He looked from her to the headstone and then at his feet.

"Susan, I'm sorry. About, you know…"

"He should be sorry." Susan sniffed, "I told him to stop smoking that pipe."

"Yeah. Hey, maybe it's really lucky he lived this long? I mean–!"

Susan averted her face. Harry sat down beside her in silence. It was the best thing to do. Within minutes he had settled for second best and started to talk about adventuring.

"…we'll work out way to the Capital and kill rats in the sewers. Once we've seen real fighting, we'll party up with some casters, strike out for the wilds–and then our story will really begin! With your power–and your strength of heart!–we'll build a party of legends! We'll beat the world, save the world. Protect the weak, fight the darkness back–!"

_"'We?'"_

"–what?"

"Well, if I'm bringing the strength, and the heart–" The praises blazed in Susan's grin-dimpled cheeks, as she leaned recklessly towards the older boy, "–what exactly are you bringing, Harry Fawkes? Who says I can't go off on my own adventure, without you?"

Harry jumped up as if he'd sat on a billhook, dramatically striking his breast.

"Susan, come on! For one, I don't know the meaning of fear–"

"I can believe that, idiot."

"–for another, my strength is as ten because my heart is pure! You know I hate to brag, but I'm the best with a sword in this village–except for the Headman, and old Rawlins who taught me. I can fight, I can learn, I'm not that dumb–and I can lead! Like Sir Reland, like Sigmount the Slayer, I will never, never give up–!"

Susan was clutching her sides with mirth, begging Harry to stop. Even before her honourable father's grave, her boy could always make her laugh. No wonder he'd kissed so many dumb village girls behind the haystacks…but she would walk the world with him on their quest, as a friend and equal. She meant to make forged-steel sure of that.

"Hey, Harry? Let's have one last sparring match, right here. I'll go with you, when you leave this village behind…if you beat me."

Harry's smile was rueful, but his eyes said she wouldn't be laughing when he'd slain his first dragon. Fighter waited for him to cut a thin stick from a nearby copse. Then she extended her leg in the cat stance, toes hardly brushing the ground, arms strong and raised. Her father was watching.

Harry charged with his weapon level, ready for her snap-kick–she slid her forefoot back, instead, and whipped a turning kick into his arm. They'd been sparring each other since she'd been ten; she knew Harry's moves. She should have known his thoughts. She'd trained longer than him, she'd trained harder, and harder and _harder_, until she'd wept, to beat her bright-eyed, too-dumb-to-quit rival, for real.

She knew his strengths; he was fast, he had stamina–he burnt it too quick–but then from his heart to his hand, his dreams would burn a nova and drive him on. Swing his cudgel so fast, she could barely jerk back–his chest heaved, and he was grinning. She'd won more than six of their matches in ten, but his pride was undefeatable. She had to conquer her rival, match that fighting spirit, or she would never be a true hero. Her strength would be lost in the wide world, weak and alone…

She sidestepped, barely in time. Harry's downwards chop scraped her chest (which served those stupid lumps right). He was striking too hard for sparring–she spun into a back-kick that downed him. But then he was up again, with dangerous blows and desperate eyes, as if he already fought for his life. But why fight so hard now, just for the hope of her fighting at her side…?

The hillside was far less smooth than a sparring floor; Susan's foot caught on a molehill and she fell back. She grappled Harry's legs, as he lunged–his stick flew away, as he fell headlong to the grass, beside her.

"Susan…I got carried away, I'm sorry…"

"Just don't do it again. You're going to slay a dragon someday, not me."

Through hard breaths, they both grinned. Their hands brushed together, plucking a strange note below Susan's heart, as they found their feet.

"So, you're my first party member after all? You fell first."

"Oh, you had me from the start, dummy. I never said I wouldn't go with you if you lost."

Harry responded by going for Susan, whether to kiss her, strangle her, or most likely something in between. She ran ahead of him all the way to the village, past the hayricks, stiles and light unhaunted woods. Laughing, as her ponytail streamed back in the wind.

-0-

After another week of woodcutting, they pooled their life earnings with the little money left by Susan's father. They stepped away from the village that was no longer their home and took to the road. To the Capital. Their small village was saddened and weakened by their going–whether they rose to greatness, or died in some dungeon, it did not dare to expect their return. They were seen off with smiles and silence, by their friends who couldn't or wouldn't go.

Susan had heard of the new village militia movement, trained by earnest young adventurers who'd survived goblin raids, or mid-ranked veterans who'd lost hope of slaying a dragon. But Harry and Susan were neither of these; they meant to protect village, hamlet and city by taking the fight to the foe. Besides, the government had called the militias unauthorised and seditious.

In his hunger to get away, Harry had talked about sleeping under the stars and living off well water; as their journey's costs mounted, this turned out to be an occasional necessity. Susan rapidly learned that splitting cut-offs with her hands didn't equal endurance. She'd still trained hours at a time, and so had Harry, but they had further to walk than they ever had in their lives, over strange roads. Neither of them wanted to call halt before the other, so they kept walking until they practically dropped. Until they almost stumbled under a merchant wagon in the dark, and realised what idiots they'd been.

More from charity than a need for guards, the merchants threw the pair a few coppers to march beside their wagons. Harry and Susan had an argument later on about holding out for silver, though both would-be heroes knew they needed the convoy's protection more, from bandits and roving orks. They knew they couldn't spend the money that would buy them food and equipment on a wagon-berth, but had another argument anyway. Susan did have to make Harry pay for a pallet in an inn, instead of pretending to save up for a helmet. If they run out of money, they'd have to beg their way back; Harry was much more afraid of that than death.

Then there were arguments over whose cooking was worse. Whether they'd make their names by slaying an ogre, a troll or even a demon, and whether Harry Fawkes had an ego the size of the world, or only the Sun. As much as his constant chatter irritated Susan, he never shirked, and he never failed to make her feel special. She'd rather have a row with him than a sonnet from from some swanky bard. She wouldn't have minded bedding down beside him every night, as long as they lived. She mightn't even have minded...never mind about never mind. It was their will to be the best heroes they could be, slaying the biggest monsters, that drove them both on; even as the tiring annoyances mounted up with whispers of doubt.

Yet it wasn't until the town where they met Wizard, Ilsa Tresckow, that Susan began to feel like she really was a legend in the making.

-0-

With surprising insight, Harry had chosen the road to the Capital, with its academy, which led on to the great astrological observatory in Cam's Gap. The best road in the world for finding a young adventurous wizard; perhaps it shouldn't have been surprising. All their lives, Susan had been torn from martial arts by her need to comfort wailing toddlers, smack the bullying ones, sit up with dying elders–assist at a childbirth emergency in a ditch, on one occasion–and quite often save Harry from an impatient woodsman's clout. By contrast, Harry's mind had always lived in a world of shining magic, black shadows and undaunted knights. The world they lived in now, as Susan knew with a thrill, every time she saw a knight's armour or a caster's staff.

Among the hard-eyed knights and swaggering archers at the guildhalls where they stopped, Harry walked with the easy poise of a prince, bearing his porcelain token like a jewel (Susan felt prouder of her scarf, but still shivered to feel what her porcelain promised). He spoke to the veterans–it would have surprised anyone but Susan–with most eager and worshipful manner imaginable, and some of them really took to him. Idiot though he still was, Susan knew her boy was where he belonged. Coming into his own. Growing up.

"You–hic!–are going to be a great hero, or else die in some ditch!" A drunken dwarf warrior told him in one guild, wagging his finger, "I advise you to–urp!–listen to your woman here, and she'll put you right!"

Fighter smiled and said she would, forgetting to contest 'your woman'. Through the labour, despair and disaster of life in a poor rural village, she had never met a crisis she could not cope with. Harry's fervent questions elicited plenty of advice from other drunks, and other greenhorns, but apart from their needing armour and potions, that was all she remembered.

The sober veterans all told them something like, get back to your village nursery. Harry didn't even think of trying to strike a hero, but Susan felt his doubt and pain.

But his idiot grin was back–Susan was very unsurprised–as he introduced her to the slim, large bosomed redhead, gazing haughtily through her eyeglasses, who had apparently come out top of her year in wizard school. She did clearly have the sense to spurn what that idiot was obviously thinking about–Susan kicked Harry's shin under the guildhall table, again, as his eyes drifted bosom-wards.

"So, um, those glass things, are they magic?"

"No. They work by the refraction of light." A sexy Mitteland accent as well…

"…I see." Harry began, "But seriously, Miss Tresckow, I feel like it's fate that led us to meet here. Ever since I defended my village's field from a dozen goblins, I've known I was born–"

"…to be an adventurer." Susan broke in, patting Harry's hand, "And you are. But, Miss Tresckow–what _is_ the refraction of light?"

Ilsa enlightened her, as it were, warming to the subject at length. Susan asked how many books there were at the academy and gaped at the response; she and Harry could barely read at all. The idea of four years to do nothing but learn was almost as wonderous to Susan as a girl who shot firebolts from her staff, slightly older than herself. Harry was enthralled and Ilsa was clearly flattered–but used to taking such awe for granted. They had to do something, to draw the prodigy wizard girl into their party and their legend, before she vanished to never to be met with again…

"So, study and books are something–" Harry struck out, enduring Susan's grinding boot on his foot, "–but how much do they do for the common folk, who wake every morning in fear and go to bed in terror–unless they've been killed with their families? They leave their little hamlets, to tremble in dirty, crowded towns, until the monsters gather thick enough to take towns and cities. The Praying Races need heroes, Ilsa. With your magic and your brains we could turn back the tide! Someday, the people might even return to their homes and plant wider fields in peace, because of the orcs, the trolls and the demons we'd slain! What better work could you do with the power you've been blessed with?"

Susan could hardly believe it. Ilsa's standing disdainful frown had become a tiny smile, as if by magic.

"I must clarify, Fawkes, that my opportunities could be called a blessing, but my power is the fruit of hard reasoning and study. _However_–you may have been correct that this was a fateful meeting. Those with power must indeed use it for the greater good of all; this is my firm belief. I was strongly urged by my teachers to turn my mind towards thaumaturgical research; but there is work I can do in the world, now, without spending four more years in a library. All I lacked was a suitable party."

With a whoop, Susan hugged Harry. She hugged Ilsa as well to cover her blush, who bore with such rustic exuberance urbanely.

A Wizard, a Warrior, a Fighter. The birth of their team swelled like a cry within Susan's heart. With her family's martial arts, her father's gift, they would protect the weak. Victims would be rescued, lives would be saved–children would no longer fear the monsters that their heroes faced with courage. The news of the goblin raid on the next village–crops stolen, men killed, insensible captives dragged off to a cave–seemed like another step of fate on their path. To Harry, at least.

"We need money for potions and armour." Susan put her hands on her hips, "We should talk to someone in the guild, who's fought goblins before–"

"If it seems like we don't know up from down, they'll stop us going," She had never seen Harry look so desperate, "And that means no one will go. Steel rank adventurers kill orcs and dire wolves, rookies kill goblins–look, how hard can it be? When we've come this far, how can we shrink back? Think of what they could be doing to the ones they took, right now–!"

"I know." Tight-lipped, Susan nodded, "Harry…maybe we'll be famous one day, change the world like you said. Maybe the songs about us will teach children to be heroes, when we're dead and dust. But if we can save those kids, right now…that means more than I can even feel. But we need another companion."

-0-

Harry's luck had not deserted him–with an invincible grin he called to a blonde little creature in white priestly robes, fidgeting at the guildhall's desk. She quietly moved to his side, clutching her staff with both hands. Ilsa's disdainful expression deepened. Susan resolved to warn the innocent blonde before her idiot childhood friend found a haystack to snog her behind–snog the Priestess, that was. Ahem. And of course, she'd have to keep an eye on the sweet little thing; make certain she bore up, unharmed and unafraid. Those delicate blue eyes brought a smile like sunrise to Susan's face, as she stuck out her hand.

"I'm Susan Lei; He Lei's daughter. I'll make sure to protect you, Ma'am Priestess."

"Oh! Um, please call me Alison Blanche." Her handshake was limp, like a proper lady (Though Ilsa was a child of wealth, her grip had been firm), "May the Earth Mother bring all of us home in safety."

Then there was the guildhall desk. The lady in the blue uniform, who asked timorously, once, if they were sure they were ready to slay goblins? And voiced no judgement of her own when they said yes. Susan felt for her. No more than one ill-fated party in a hundred could possibly die on their first goblin slaying quest, she was sure, but that was clearly too many dead for this sensitive soul.

If there was overwhelming danger, for adventurers like them, on their first quest–surely she would have told them what they had to know? How else could the guild operate, or what was it for, if not ensuring that rookies survived to show their quality? Of course there would be danger, but if not now, when? If not them, who? Harry's grin fired Susan's spirit. With their courage and strength, what else did they need?

Then the end of their dreams stood up, and walked down the counter towards them. Light footsteps, even clad from top to toe in dented, ugly metal. The adventurer seemed tall enough to block the sun (but how tall were they, really?), and the shadows in the helmet's grille were midnight. The voice seemed throaty and dead enough to issue from a hero's grave;

"If you value your lives, follow me."


End file.
